


and God I know I'm one

by kitmarlowed



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of stairs, five minutes and one picked lock later has him in the room, facing the safe. Napoleon has dealt with safes like this one before, and his methods are not exactly what the agency teaches -- nor, indeed those taught by the KGB, Illya had told him, scorn for Napoleon's previous vocation clear in his voice, their methods usually involve drilling -- but Napoleon can crack into a safe in half the time they can, the only issue is the delicacy required. He's good at delicacy, when the situation calls. He's good at most things -- Illya had scoffed, said "I'm better", walked away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and God I know I'm one

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again. Thanks go to [Gamble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark) and [Winona](http://archiveofourown.org/users/winonadanger) and [Emma Jean](http://laydownanywhere.tumblr.com/)
> 
> this a completely different fic to the one i planned. surprise surprise!

The operation officially, for the purposes of the innumerable and tedious reports that'll be filled out in triplicate before they can move on, starts with Illya sliding into his place at the bar. Napoleon's outside, waits the five minutes then walks, entering the game.

He's been here before -- not this particular hotel but he knows the type in his bones, he's learnt all the cues and the tells and the body language to pass here, in places so like here that he can understand more of the man from the hotel he picked to hide in than from all the background intelligence they'd been give. Their mark, Davis, is a man, not from means but, at least now, of means, and he's hungry for the glitz that should afford him. Their man is heedless of the facts Napoleon and Illya know, that the glamour will only last as long as the criminals he serves remain happy with his performance. But Napoleon's been here before -- he's operated under the same absolute conviction that the high life he's stolen will stay high and so it's easy to slip into that role, even if it's only for the benefit of the people between the lobby and room in which Davis is hiding all manner of damning pieces of paper, a trail that control thinks will lead them easily to the ringleader of some conspiracy or other. 

Illya hums, the sound tinny in the newfangled earpiece, and Napoleon shakes himself at the go signal. He has roughly thirty minutes, simple in and out, photograph the pertinent pages, search for anything relevant, a simple intel gathering op. 

A set of stairs, five minutes and one picked lock later has him in the room, facing the safe. Napoleon has dealt with safes like this one before, and his methods are not exactly what the agency teaches -- nor, indeed those taught by the KGB, Illya had told him, scorn for Napoleon's previous vocation clear in his voice, their methods usually involve drilling -- but Napoleon can crack into a safe in half the time they can, the only issue is the delicacy required. He's good at delicacy, when the situation calls. He's good at most things -- Illya had scoffed, said "I'm better", walked away.

He gets it open quickly, taking in the filing system to find that half the documents relate to the man's own finances, to his mother's and his great uncle's and Napoleon is careful not to crease them as he sets them down. The folders he needs are square in the middle of them pile, as if Davis-the-accountant had decided at the last minute that he should probably hide them but no one had ever really told him how to do that. He hasn't even tried to hide what they pertain to, either, the account in his narrow scrawl writ red atop each page. 

There's a lot of money here, Napoleon sees accounts all over the world, probably enough for their people to get a pattern and find the trail. He sets his own briefcase on the tidy desk, careful not to push anything even remotely out of place. The gadget in the briefcase requires a little assembling but eventually Napoleon manages to start photographing the pages. "Remind me," he says, though Illya won't, can't answer him, "why we are the ones doing this? It's just intelligence, surely there are others more suited to gathering it." Illya, he knows, will hate that, just as Illya hates most everything Napoleon prizes about himself. "It's too easy," he continues, and again Illya just breathes, steady as if he doesn't hear Napoleon, "it's boring."

And then, because the track record for 'I-told-you-so's seems to be fixed in Illya's favour, everything goes a bit awry. First the door opens, then there's his own intake of breath, sharp and fast, and then there's the sound of a gun being cocked. Napoleon freezes and Illya hums, this one a question. Napoleon shifts, keeping his movements slow, watching the gun without being obvious about it. There are two of them, one with his hands on his gun and the other with his gun in Napoleon's face. 

"Is there a problem, gents?" he asks, best impression of the Queen's damned English he can conjure, he snaps the briefcase shut over the equipment with his hands behind his back. It's an easy line to use, to get information without ringing too many alarm bells, but the man with the gun moves forward and Napoleon can hear Illya shifting before he speaks, quick and quiet. "Get out of there." 

Napoleon doesn't move, he's intrigued, there was nothing in their initial intelligence to suggest that the man was held as remotely worth protecting personally. The only thing they'd understood as important had been the documents, protected by a locked briefcase and in the safe of a London hotel room. 

The man with the gun is closer now, arm's length away from crowding Napoleon against the desk and there's an intent that's almost not quite deadly in his eyes. The gun is aimed at Napoleon's chest. "What's in the briefcase, then?" the man says, accent all streets and his breath reeks of alcohol but Napoleon lets out the breath he'd been holding because these men aren't protection - they're just in an inappropriate place at a bad time. 

"Nothing special," Napoleon says, "just some papers for work. I'm just a clerk you see, here on business." He tries to keep his voice scared and not guilty, hoping that the men will maybe threaten him a little but leave for richer pickings.

In his ear Illya growls. "You are going to get yourself killed, cowboy. Get out." and Napoleon can practically see him, downstairs in the lobby, muttering into his glass. But the man with the gun is considering him, and Napoleon needs to speed this up, needs to reach behind him for his own gun, needs to pull something to get out before the mark gets bored of his drinking and decides to turn in for the night.

"Give me all your money, then," says the would-be thief and some old part of Napoleon sighs, wonders what's happened to the class of London's criminals while the real and present Napoleon brings his knee up, using the time it gives him as the man yells to grab for the briefcase and the gun before the other man can even think to raise his own. 

The window isn't far, behind him and to the left, just a leap down onto the wall and then a smooth balancing act until he gets to the ground. It's just getting to the window that could give him trouble, he thinks, as the man who had taken a knee to the groin with such grace straightens up and rounds on him and the other aims his gun, taking off the safety and Napoleon's hands find the wooden desk tidy and he throws it, the gun clattering to the floor as the man brings his hands to his chest. 

The first man fires a shot just as Napoleon brings the briefcase round in an arc, hitting the man hard in the side off the head, and then all Napoleon can feel is white hot pain blooming across his shoulder. He raises his own gun at the second man, who whimpers and steps out of the doorway and then Napoleon's running, pushing through the people who've started to gather in the corridor at the sound of the gun going off. 

He makes it down to the lobby before somebody tries to grab at him, touching the wound in his shoulder and making him hiss, he almost lashes out but Illya's there, a quick punch to the man's neck. Illya doesn't say anything as they get out of there, getting to the car fast enough to shake anyone with ideas of following them, he just takes the gun and the briefcase from Napoleon's hands -- shaking, slightly, adrenaline and pain mixed up into a heady cocktail Napoleon could lose himself in -- and pushes Napoleon into the passenger seat. 

Napoleon slides his jacket off, wincing as the parts of the fabric that are sticking with his blood catch at the edges of the wound. He can feel without really looking that it's only glancing, knows that the pain would be far different if it wasn't, knows he's lucky, but it still hurts like hell. 

He looks over to Illya, at the white-knuckled grip he has on the steering wheel, rage in the stiff line of his shoulders. "Well that'll need stitches, but other than that I'd call this a job well done" he says. Illya doesn't respond, eyes fixed on the road, but a muscle in his jaw is jumping and Napoleon has the terrible idea to push this. 

They pull over two streets away from the safe house, both of them checking for any signs they were followed, for any traces of anything out of the ordinary. There's nothing around the car, nothing in the next street, and nothing near the safe house. Illya unlocks the door and pushes Napoleon inside.

"Look," he says, a little indignant, because they're both alive, it's hardly the worst thing to have happened on an op either of them have pulled together or separately but Illya has him by his good shoulder, putting down the briefcase and pushing him back against the front door and Napoleon forgets what he was going to say. 

Illya starts unbuttoning Napoleon's shirt, and Napoleon's breath catches at the hands so close to his throat, muscle memory of them wrapped around his neck the last time. Illya notices and slows his movements down, taking his time as Napoleon starts to shake apart underneath him. His shoulder feels like it's on fire, bleeding in a steady trickle that's half soaking into his shirt and half falling in lines down his arm to catch at where his elbow is bent, his hand clutching at Illya's jacket until Illya peels the sleeve from his skin and he has to free himself from the cuff. 

Napoleon presses himself back against the door with a hiss when Illya's fingers run over the wound, the frayed edges of his skin catching on the rough pad of Illya's index finger. Illya lets out a low whistle, leaning in to take a closer look and Napoleon can feel the gun in his pocket press against his hip. He gasps, a small involuntary hitch in his breath, making Illya move back a little, letting his eyes roam over Napoleon's body as he goes. 

He takes the gun out of his pocket, holding it loosely as he meets Napoleon's eyes. "We should get you stitches," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, the gravel turned up to levels that would make Napoleon stand and take notice if he wasn't already there. He doesn't move to go, just stands there, passing the gun between his hands like he knows Napoleon's aching to be touched, like he knows that all Napoleon's nerves are live wire thrumming with energy that needs to spark off something. He has to know, Napoleon thinks, remembers they've been here before just with bruises instead of the deep cut, it's just a more intense shade of pain. Illya leans in close again, one arm across Napoleon's chest and it's so easy for him, he's so tall and so strong and Napoleon shudders a little at the thought of it, distracted until he feels the cool muzzle of the silencer press into the hollow at his collarbone, just hard enough to pull the skin at his shoulder.

"Fuck," Napoleon says and Illya raises and eyebrow, dragging the gun up Napoleon's throat to rest against his jaw. 

"This does not make sense to me," Illya tells him, not stopping so much as pausing, considering, and his eyes are so dark that they belie how much he likes it, having Napoleon at his mercy. "Pain should not make you like this." 

"If you truly believe that," Napoleon breathes, pushing his luck and hoping, praying that Illya will respond the right way, "you're a worse spy than I'd thought." 

Illya snarls, moves his arm from Napoleon's chest to slide a hand into his hair, gripping tight and yanking Napoleon's head back hard enough to pull the wound tight until it bleeds again, exposing the line of his throat, forced submission. "You are the worse one," Illya says, using the gun to tilt Napoleon's head to face him. He licks his lips and Napoleon doesn't care about the hand in his hair, just moves forward, pressing up to kiss him, biting and desperate, the gun sliding back to his neck until Illya shifts it to the underside of his jaw again. It's a lot of sensation to take in at once, his pulse echoing down the barrel of the gun, pressed hard enough now to probably bruise and Napoleon hisses against Illya's lips at the thought of how much he wants it, wants physical reminders of tonight, wants the wound on his shoulder to remind him of Illya not himself nearly getting shot by two nobodies. 

He's got one hand wrapped in the fabric of Illya's jacket and the other grasping at his shoulder, he tugs Illya until they're pressed together, one of Illya's legs between his and it's so much but not enough and Napoleon whines with it. 

"Please, God, Peril, please," he says, staccato, voice wrecked and thin from the pain, still gasping shallow breaths whenever Illya moves even the tiniest bit against him. Illya gives one last tug on Napoleon's hair and then scratches a line down his neck, over his chest to where his slacks rest around his waist. 

"Say it," Illya says, just like he has before, biting down on Napoleon's lip, moving the gun and his hand away to leave Napoleon holding himself up against the door. 

Napoleon moans, low and long and it catches in his throat as his shoulder sends another spark of sharp pain through his nerves. "You're the better spy," he says, because it's true, because it's what will make Illya touch him again to prove the point -- Illya is the spy, Napoleon the thief, an effective agent but not nearly as honed and sharp and vicious as Illya is. 

Illya grins out the side of his mouth, sharp teeth showing and he clicks the safety back on the gun to throw it safely behind them. Napoleon mourns the loss of it for the five seconds it takes Illya to grip his hair again and tug him up to bite at Napoleon's lips, breaking the thin layer of skin at the same time he presses the heel of his palm to where Napoleon is straining against his slacks. 

Napoleon lets himself touch then, lets himself trail a hand along the narrow set of Illya's shoulders, using the other to guide the zipper down on Illya's jacket, opening it up to put his hands all over the taut planes of Illya's chest over the thing fabric of his shirt. Illya's hand leaves Napoleon's hair to catch the wrist of his good arm, pinning it above them as he moves his head down to nip at Napoleon's throat, each press of teeth white hot on his sensitive skin and Napoleon thinks he could come from just this, from just Illya's teeth and the pressure.

His arm is starting to ache but he pushes through to wrap his hand around Illya's wrist and increase the pressure, breath coming faster and each rise of his shoulders on inhale pulling the skin and making his gasp. He can feel Illya smile against his neck, against his jugular and Napoleon's so close, drawing himself together.

Illya bites down, harder than before, a full open-mouthed bite, like he wants it to hurt like Napoleon does, like Napoleon wants to see the bruise there tomorrow and to feel hot all over with just the memory of it. Napoleon shudders, a full-bodied shake that has Illya tightening his grip on his wrist, and he knows how he must look, eyes wide and mouth red-bitten and raw, lip bleeding to match the red lines streaking down his arm but to see that echoed in Ilya's eyes, the desire and the open naked want has Napoleon coming with a shout that Illya muffles quickly, letting go of his wrist to wrap his hand over Napoleon's mouth, the salt from his skin making the cut on his lip sting. 

"So easy, cowboy," Illya murmurs. "You should get hurt more often."

He leaves Napoleon there, breathless and sated and aching all over as the adrenaline high wanes, and takes the briefcase with him to the kitchen and Napoleon wants to wreck him, wants to see him shake apart, violent and bloody. He figures they have all night, and he wonders whether he should stitch his arm up just to tear them later.

In the kitchen Illya watches him grab a glass of water, and Napoleon knows just how to cant his hips, to drag a hand through his hair. He brings a handful of water to his arm, wincing at the sting of it, gasping at the cold. He hears the scrape of the chair as Illya stands, thinks 'good', thinks 'here we go' and then Illya's on him again, biting at his lips and grinding his hips down against him, where Napoleon is still sensitive.

Illya swears, first in English then again in Russian, and Napoleon smiles.


End file.
